Swing Step
by MorriganFearn
Summary: September 1944. Aland shows up on Faroes' door step, and they talk about anything but the war. Then they dance and talk some more. Romantic fluff, with historical undertones.


For Fairywine, who puts up with my long silences with the patience of a saint.

* * *

**Swing Step**

September 1944

Freed for the evening from responsibilities by a strongly worded telegram from Uncle Arthur, Astrid turned on the radio. Leaning forward to play with the dial until the static was quiet and the broadcast was clear felt almost like too much effort. As soon as she had realized that she was free for the evening everything had felt like too much effort.

But it would be so nice to doze with the radio on, and her stove that leaning forward in the chair for a few minutes would have been a small price to pay. Once she found the clearest signal, she could lean back in the chair with ratty cushions that had been _salvaged_ in 1850 [1]. Faroes had never really bothered to find out the rest of its history. The hard wood and floral upholstery was a reminder of one of the more exciting moments in her history, and who cared after that?

The radio noise ran clean, and Faroes leaned back, smiling. News, delivered in precise British tones, filled her living room, and for a moment Faores closed her eyes. Of course, as soon as she surrendered to tiredness, thoughts whirred through her head. She had to find replacements for her nylons. There was the problem of the ancient sausage in her icebox: should she feed it to her new puppy given its iffiness, or eat it anyway to set and example of patriotic duty? One should feed the useful hungry before wasting expensive food on pets.

Astrid gave up and opened her eyes again. For all that absolutely no time had passed since she sat down, the radio was droning away on some new program. Maybe she should try picking up Radio Orange once more. That had been a fun afternoon with Agnes and the girls climbing all over the roof, doing dangerous things with the wiring, and finally being sighed at because the broadcast was incomprehensible. But scaring her landlady out of a year's worth of life was less fun if it was just Astrid. Maybe she should get up and do a crossword. She still had a pile of old papers for wrapping lunches and presents upstairs. There had to be an old crossword up there. But that meant climbing stairs and hunting through papers.

Or! She could finally hem the skirt of her spare uniform the way she had been meaning to since Agnes had mentioned that no one at HQ would notice an extra inch of calf. The people who mattered would, of course, and that was the point, silly Astrid. The idea was nice. After the last war skirts had been on the rise and with this one, well, maybe the extra inch meant that a win wasn't that far away.

Maybe by the end of this one she would have the perfect length figured out for at least one of those people who mattered. Astrid grinned sleepily at her own silliness, knowing her friend wouldn't notice, and eyed the door to her bedroom. The uniform was in the laundry basket, and all she would have to do would be to get up. But not being able to sleep and getting up were different things. She snuggled down into the ratty pillows, and played with the hem of her "day off" dress as she tried to find the energy to rise.

There had been longer, harder weeks. This year the question was not would England win the war, but when would England win the war, and by how much. France was already free. The radio droned on about Allied troops fighting in Belgium—If only geography had placed Denmark in a more Westward direction. Anko was unlikely to be freed until Germany itself was under concentrated attack. The North Sea was too dangerous to send the whole of the British navy to Norway, despite Faroes' dearest wishes.

A cold nose bumped wetly at her hand, causing the Faroes to look down. Blæsevejr wagged his trailing tail happily, and bumped her hand once more.

"You want food, little man?" Faroes inquired, smiling slightly.

Thank goodness British rationing had not hit her land the way it was at Arthur's table. Pets were a luxury, and she was really spoiling her little mongrel rotten, but he _had_ been a gift from Scotland, and he didn't eat so much that she minded the expense of buying condemned meat from the butchers. Though there was the suspect sausage. He'd happily chewed on things going green with mold, surely rancid sausage would be no trouble. Besides, he would was going to be dead in another twenty years or less. She could give him a home and food for now. It would hardly be a burden to her, Føroyar.

Nothing is when you live forever, she thought wistfully.

As Faroes rose from her chair with more energy for her puppy than for her own tasks, she paused to look at the corner where the voluminous Tyr snored his sheepy snores. Luckily he was able to browse on the grass, or Faroes was not sure what she would have done about his lazy behind. She found it so hard to come up with grain these days. Oh well, he was fat and old and immortal as well. If he missed a few extra treats that wouldn't do him any more harm than shortening his temper.

Which was short enough. She glared, but her choice in his company was much like her choice in relatives, which was none at all. Tyr was part of the islands, and she was part of the islands, and as long as there were rock and grass, and the boats put out to sea they were stuck with one another. That didn't mean that they couldn't make life hard for each other.

Blæsevejr barked, and she headed for the kitchen. Just over the stove, the single window in the room was covered with conscientious curtains, but she heard the tell tale beating of autumn rain against the glass as the wind blew. Ah, maybe this was the real reason her mind was scattering all over the place. Ideas were coming down with the rain. "Well, it's as good a theory as any," Astrid told Blæsevejr.

The icebox sausage smelled no better than it had yesterday, and the little white fuzz had grown. This would almost certainly cause stomach trouble. Better to give it to the dog. Definitely. It was not a betrayal of principal. "It really isn't."

Blæsevejr stared at her with the most serious expression of agreement in his black eyes. Of course it wasn't a betrayal of principal. Certainly not.

Astrid broke the sausage in thirds, tossing the first to the floor. Blæsevejr barked in thanks and then began to snarf the first section, loudly enough to drown out the radio. She contemplated patriotic duty, and the chance that she was teaching her dog bad habits. Then Astrid retuned to the living room, tossing the second thrid as soon as the slurping stopped. "But you don't get any more if you whine."

Turning up the dial she caught the last of the Home Service. The news caster was announcing some lotto winnings being donated to a widows and orphans fund in Hampshire. Astrid sighed. While she was up she might as well get that crossword. Maybe there would be a nice murder mystery coming up or something less serious, at least. If the weather weren't so bad she could—have done absolutely nothing in the dark of evening, but it would have been a start.

She started as a knock shook her door. Almost simultaneously, the wind battered against the front room windows, bringing with the rain the strong salty smell of a land throwing their land-ness about with abandon. Blæsevejr began to bark with excited fury. Astrid rushed to the door, and flung it open to reveal a sodden hat and slicker holding together a man's shape.

"My gracious! Åland did you bring that rain up the steps with you? We just got them roofed over this summer—" Astrid began attempting a smile.

Her fellow set of islands laughed damply, stepping a little closer to the light from her living room lamp. "I—well, you know how I like, uh, weather," the lines of his face grew even deeper at this poor lie. "I—would you mind if I came in? Only, I wanted to see you. It's, things aren't good. Er, I mean—look, I'm sorry if this is presuming. I thought you'd be a friend."

"Of course you should come in. I'm not supposed to be showing light anyway," Astrid realized that she still gripped greasy molding sausage as she gestured his way indoors. Quickly she tossed the rest to the still growling young sheep dog at her ankles. "Er, the coat rack is right here."

Åland dripped water. Astrid wondered if he had gone swimming before arrival. There was a reason that they had put a roof over the rickety stairs up to her second floor flat. Well, a reason besides the practical one that snow had taken out two of the wooden stairs in January, and her landlady did not wish to have to replace the whole set in the next few years. The tin roof on its little trestles was a wonder against the weather, and gave her more protection for her bike.

But once his coat was shed, and the damp article that must be called a hat—because no rain cloud made a residence of someone's head—hung on the peg beside it, he seemed much less weather beaten and more simply beaten.

Åland glanced longingly at the light of the living room with its horrible horsehair couch and the salvaged chair, and then stared down at his soaked pants. "I got a little excited when I was on the pier and decided to challenge the sea to a splashing contest."

"Well that explains it."

"I'm not sure that it does," Jakob began scowling, though this was rather ruined when he tried to thrust his hands deeply into his pockets and discovered that his wet pants refused the operation. Settling for a slightly pink expression of embarrassment he mumbled: "Thanks."

"It's fine. Here, sit. You look a wreck," With what she thought was great tactical planning, Astrid pointed at the horsehair sofa. No matter how wet Jakob had managed to get while playing with the waves that horrible couch wouldn't mind one bit, and if she was lucky it would take to mold, and then she would have an excuse to get rid of it.

Jakob returned her gracious hostessing with nothing more than a grunt. "I'll ruin it. Besides, you haven't even asked me why I'm here."

"I assume that we'll get to that sooner or later," Astrid pointed out, shifting back and forth on her heels, trying not to think of greasy sausages and how much she needed to wash her hands right now. "In your own time, and perhaps when Blæsevejr isn't busy snarffing his food too loudly to talk."

Jakob tried to wring out a bit of his sweater, nevertheless. The yellows and blues were strong and lovely against undyed gray. Astrid wondered who had knit it for him. It actually matched the sad remains of the hat that was slowly dripping in the corner.

"So, please?" Astrid gestured to her living room. "Just wait a moment, and I can get you something to drink."

She escaped to the dark kitchen before Jakob could protest any more. Did she even have anything to drink? There should be beer, but beer was—exactly what you gave to friends who didn't need to be impressed. Washing her hands with the hard soap, Astrid considered the hostessing alternatives, but her precious bottles were probably the best move [2].

By the time she came back to the living room, clean and bearing beer, Jakob had perched gingerly on top of the horsehair, hist hands hovering as close to the central heating pipes as h could manage. Astrid stopped in the doorway considering for a second how nice he looked with the yellow lamp light glinting from his fair hair, and the deep reserve neatly washed from his face by the warmth. Very few people must see this side of him.

"Here, have a bottle."

"Thanks," he slid forward to grasp the base, ad slid back. "This couch. It is, ah, very slidey."

Astrid returned to her own chair, shrugging. "Yeah, well, it's one of those old horsehair monstrosities. I've been meaning to replace it for decades."

"And yet here it is, Lazybones."

"I'm not being lazy! It's hard to get a lot of things around here, and you should never throw away anything until it is past mending."

"Mmmhmm. So you're cheap."

"Thrifty," Faroes popped the cap from her bottle with decided vehemence.

Jakob grinned just a bit, and she hoped he would slide right off the horrible couch, wet trousers and all. "You know, you could import furniture at nominal fees from a usefully neutral set of islands that I know of."

"You schemer! Pirate!" Astrid widened her eyes and placed a shocked hand to her virtuous bosom.

"I'm only making the suggestion. I'm quite good at making chairs and tables. And of course you'd get a good discount."

"I suspect you of opportunism, whatever the discount."

"It's the exact same discount that I would give to all young ladies of my acquaintance. Not to be baulked at by the thrifty."

"I know discounts a plenty. I can get what I need from Anko, when he's freed. Hey! What's that expression for? Anko hasn't done anything to you!"

Åland's face had shifted back into the weary lines he had brought with him to her doorstep. His expression reminded her of something, although she could not have put her finger exactly on what. But certainly it was nothing good. He stared blearily at her central heating once more, and took a drink.

"I didn't mean anything by it," he muttered.

Astrid tried to suspend her disbelief. "Well, you must be having the worst case of indigestion, then—"

"Maybe I just don't see a point in talking about this blasted war any longer! That's all that you ever talk about, you know! 'Oh, when will Anko be free?' 'I can't imagine what's happening to Uncle Arthur, with Gerry being so rough on him.' 'Oh the Americans are so grand, don't you think?' 'Jolly lucky we have the Soviets helping us.'"

Astrid recoiled from the falsetto phrases he flung at her. "I never say 'jolly lucky'!"

With a shifting of eyes from the horsehair end of life, she suspected that Jakob was regretting the outburst. "Well. You act like you should."

"I don't think I know anyone who says 'jolly lucky.' I think it's something the Americans invented to be mean half the time."

"I'm sure England says it. And if England does, than you do know someone who says it. Which makes you a bit of a lying scoundrel, doesn't it?"

"I'm a lying scoundrel? You're the one who's lying. Or, at least, grossly misinformed about the useage of jolly lucky," Astrid amended. "Besides, I know you don't like the Soviets. I'd never say such a thing."

They drank their drinks, and in the gap where their conversation should have been, the wireless glided, adding music to helpfully remind them about the lack of voices. Astrid considered turning the self important box off, but getting up under the weight of Jakob's preoccupied glare was looking like too much effort. Was this going to be their whole evening?

"Father had to sue for peace."

"I'd heard. But they said on the radio that you were well out of it." She had listened very carefully, and read the papers to be sure.

"So? It's my_ family_," He took another swig of beer. "It looks like Ivan's going to take my sister. God. He sent one of his goons to hang around and try to look menacing since the treaty began. Vile pipsqueak is just ghosting around Dad's house as though we don't know what a thug looks like if he pretends to be a guest."

"That's why you came to see me?"

"Yeah. I dunno. I had some pretty wild plans about stealing your harpoon while I was crossing, but then I stepped on the dock—and nearly fell in the sea again—and, well. I'm neutral. I'm _always_ neutral. I'll remain neutral. I'm still with Father that way."

"Is that what you want?" Astrid put down her beer and leaned forward. Bleak, that was the word. He looked like a barren plain where the snow and wind had pinned the grass to the earth, never to grow again. That kind of expression didn't belong on a boy made of salt and deep trees.

Jakob fiddled with his bottle. "I think so. Finland is overbearing and forgetful, and just plain weird. But—Karelia doesn't need me. I don't think Finland does either sometimes, but someone is going to have to take care of him if Karelia goes."

"Oh," The radio murmured on and Astrid was certain that anything she said right now would mean just as much as the droning clarinet. "Well. Anyway, you don't have to think about that if you don't want to."

Oh, that was beyond idiotic. It was like thinking about Denmark. Any time she was told not to worry, she worried. Astrid should _engage_ Jakob. Make him forget rather than tell him to forget. It worked perfectly well when Greenland was being a beast and scaring her so badly that she couldn't think about Denmark and Germany, and the whole stupid utter mess.

Jakob picked up his bottle again. "I thought you'd see it like that."

Jumping up, Astrid reached out a hand. "That's because I'm sensible."

Jakob snorted, his bright blue eyes shining glassily as they rose over his bottle to travel up her arm. "No you're not. I'm sensible. I can fish. You run around shouting a lot with a harpoon."

"I fish, too! Now, c'mon. Up! On your feet," She grabbed his bottle hand and hauled.

As always Jakob wore his trees on his skin, and the strength of the seas rolled in his muscles. It was her secret knowledge, and Astrid smiled to herself as he crashed into her, unready for her plans. The Faroes caught Åland with a laugh, steadying him long enough to lean on his chest, and whisper in his ear: "C'mon, I'm going to teach you something horrid and American and scandalous. You can't learn this while fishing."

Her first step to the right bewildered Åland. Astrid tried to concentrate on holding his hands with just enough tension, like those nice young Canadians had talked about [3]. Right step (one trilled a sax), double step (a-two it continued, and the drums kept the beat), left step, double step, rock back (on a trumpet). He obviously didn't hear the music from the radio—or at least didn't connect it with the way she pulled him with her. He didn't even manage to complain as she pushed him back to where they had started, possibly a little closer than before. "Okay. So, you sort of felt that? We're holding both hands now because you don't have it down yet, but soon we'll only be connected through my right, your left."

"Are—are we dancing?" Jakob's face was inscrutable, but Astrid suspected that it was only surprise at the unexpected that was keeping him there. Any moment now he would call off the whole thing as childish, and yank his hands from hers, callouses and all.

"Yes, we are. You're my mirror. It's really easy. I step right,you step left. Then we do a quick double step. I step left, you step right—double step," Astrid stamped her feet down with more force than necessary. "And now for the surprise finish, I rock step back, you rock step forward, back, and we're home!"

Was it her imagination or was he actually smiling a bit? Counting, waiting for the music to fall into time with them, Astrid began once more, and Jakob followed. They rock stepped into Astrid's chair. An overly enthusiastic double step sent Blæsevejr running from the room. A misreading of intentions caused both to side step into each other seconds later. Astrid felt that it was time to take the training wheels off, and removed her left hand, immediately causing Jakob to flail about with his arm for a bit. She laughed at his stranded fish routine, and her laugh seemed to travel through her right arm and into his palm.

He kept that laugh close, hiding it in a grin. The song changed over, and as they rock stepped to an announcer telling them that this was the BBC, he pulled her ever so slightly closer than he should have. "At some point we get to do spins and tricks, yeah?"

"Not in this living room, Mr. Fisherman."

But they were off again. The wireless obliged them by giving the nine o'clock news, and Astrid thought there probably wasn't anything better to dance to. Jakob kept his eyes on her, and she was almost too scared to look anywhere else. They were turning together connected by just a hand and excitement. If she looked left or right she would see something hey had almost broken, or the next wrong step, but if they just kept looking at each other, she could swing in and out for the rest of the night. For a moment, she forgot that this wasn't a dance hall, and that she hadn't taught Jakob the move.

Her attempt to turn brought them together sharply in a tangle of limbs and they careened into the table with the radio. Everything fell. Jakob, Astrid, the wireless, the frail table mat made by a girl long dead and sold at a fair that had not happened in fifty years, and the rickety end table—one example of a distracted attempt by Denmark of placating his little girl with the gifts of Norway—crashed to the floor.

Miraculously, Alvar Lidell continued talking about the execution of a man for the murder. Faroes lay against Åland, wanting to preserve the mysterious moment for as long as possible. His arms drew around her. "Are you alright?"

She was warm and Jakob was hugging her. She could feel stubble on his cheek and it jabbed into her jaw. Her living room was a complete mess. The end table might have taken a battering that put the worst of Blæsevejr's chewing to shame. She was on her floor, hugging Jakob, and they were quite warm together.

"Yes. Alright I think. You look like you're sitting on something painful," Astrid assessed.

"A piece of table, I think."

Astrid tried to get up, but for a while, it was too much effort. And Jakob kept his arms around her. They smiled. For a moment, they even ginned like the fools. At the door Blæsevejr whined. Okay, they really had to get up.

The thing poking Jakob in the back turned out to have been a part of the radio frame. Astrid examined the radio as Jakob righted the table. She declared the wireless sound, and dropped it on her chair. Jakob fished the table mat from under the horsehair sofa. He returned the mat to the table, and everything was about as right in the living room as it was going to get that evening.

They sat down on the horsehair couch together. They slid off together. The floor, dusty and dirty in its corners because Astrid had neglected her spring cleaning once again, seemed serviceable. They leaned together companionably. Jakob stared at the radio enthroned upon the salvaged chair. "I've been all over, you know," he murmured at last.

"Mmm?"

"All over. I've seen Bremerhaven, and Aberdeen, and Bergen, and Vigo. All over, and it's the small things that are missing. Like the wireless. Small things that people can't have." Jakob's hand found Astrid's again, and he leaned his head on her shoulder, as though the weight of everything rested there.

Blæsevejr trotted up to them, and nosed his way between. Astrid let him. He was a young dog, and she had decades. What she had those decades for, she wasn't quite sure yet. It was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't think of anything better. Decades more for nights like this. Her thumb rubbed circles on Jakob's palm.

"You made a deal with a devil to win, you know."

"Your devil. He's just an ally," she could say that. It was alright now.

Jakob's sigh blew against her neck like a bitter cold wind. Maybe it was true, and Suomi was the birthplace of winter, forever marked by the old general. "Yes. My devil. Yours is the one holding Bergen, and telling people it's illegal to own a wireless set."

"Or dance to a tune made by unsuitable people."

"And dance unsuitable dances," Jakob agreed.

They fell into a drowsy silence. However, the drone of the radio became distracting. Astrid rose, and turned it off. She gazed down at her guest on the floor. "I have sheets and a blanket, if you're staying the night."

"I'll go back to the boat."

"Oh?"

"Wouldn't you prefer your nice familiar berth to sleeping on a strange floor—or worse, that horrible sofa?"

There wasn't much to defend, but Astrid made the half-hearted attempt. "It's a very nice sofa."

"Only in your books. It keeps throwing me off."

"That's how you can tell that it has taste."

Jakob smiled again. He didn't look as bleak as before. Just tired. "We—we should try to dance again."

"We should."

"I don't know if I'll have a wireless," Jakob admitted. "Father's been talking about selling his furniture and moving into one of the old factories. There's always a shipyard or two that could use me."

Ahh. He did not mean dancing in the near future, then. This was After the War. And After the War, neutral autonomous region notwithstanding, looked much different for him, than it did for her. "So, you're not coming back tomorrow?"

"I might be tempted to steal your harpoon and then leave."

Astrid snickered. "Trust me, that would not be pleasant. Norway gave it to me in the old days. Back when storms mattered."

Jakob levered himself to his feet, swaying slightly. He held out his hand, once again. They shook hands like old business colleagues. Not like people who had danced and laughed, and made a wreck of a living room. Astrid wished it was more, but she could feel the thanks in his handshake. She felt trees and sea and ships once again. It was Åland's own brand of open air and water. Not whatever cold winter had been laying in his bones when he came to her doorstep.

He left, having stayed just long enough to make sure that she would have to visit him again.

* * *

**Footnotes and Explanations:**

[1] From 1535-1856 trade on the Faroe Islands was basically given away to anyone the Danish Crown liked. It was sort of like a consolation prize: "Here, I like you, but can't give you a knighthood. Have this trade monopoly instead. It's like a lordship with over 500 serfs, just without the title." After the 1560s the trade monopoly mostly belonged to Dutch merchant houses, although it got passed around every few generations. By the mid 1800s the economy was so corrupt and inflation was so high, that most Faroese turned to piracy. If you could be arrested and killed for selling your sheep's wool to your neighbor rather than going to Torshavn and selling it to the trading house for a negative three pennies worth of profit, why not say "fuck the police" and start hijacking those boats filled with cloth and furniture that passed by your islands, instead? The result would be the same if you were caught, and you could get a lot more cool stuff. One of the official excuses for piracy was "salvaging." However, one of the conditions of opening the Faroes as a free market in 1856 was that the Faroese had to curtail their plundering. Which they actually did!

[2] Beer bottling was known of, but rare in Europe during the war. Between rationing, and the need for glass and aluminum for the war effort on both sides, having beer bottles would be a bit of a treat. I haven't been able to find anything on the situation in the Faroes in regards to rationing. As far as I can tell, the alcohol restrictions that Britain imposed were not in effect on the islands, but I don't know. Either way, it seemed reasonable to assume that bottled beer would be a little special, because of general rarity.

[3] The Faroe Islands were the site of some advanced radar operations to keep Germans from launching surprise air attacks on Britian from the north (There was a great worry that Norway would be converted into one giant airfield, basically, and while that did not exactly happen—Norway's ports being extremely up to date and well used, the German Navy preferred to use Norway as a staging ground, rather than build too many new air fields for the Luftwaffe, which would have been prime targets for the Norwegian resistance, in any case—had the war gone on longer, it probably would have). The RDF stations were set up and initially manned by Canadian troops.

It was common for British Troops and the Faroese to go to dances together. Although the Faroes almost certainly knew about swing dancing before 1942, dances like these would be the first time Astrid, the character, would have a chance to learn them. Astrid is probably kidding herself a bit if she thinks that Jakob had never seen swing before—but she missed out on the waltz, and she is going to enjoy this new dance form in all of its glory. She is a sophisticated and cosmopolitan woman, after all.


End file.
